But scarce had the awful words been said
When the King's heart withered with secret dread.
The boisterous laughter was stifled all,
And corpselike still did wax the hall;
Lo! lo! on the whited wall there came
The likeness of a man's hand in flame,
And wrote, and wrote, in letters of flame,
And wrote and vanished, and no more came.
The King stark-staring sat, a-quail,
With knees a-knocking, and face death-pale,
The satraps' blood ran cold—none stirred;
They sat like statues, without a word.
The Magians came; but none of them all
Could read those letters of flame on the wall.
But in that same night of his vaunting vain
By his satraps' hand was Belshazzar slain.
* * * * *